


By All the Token Flowers

by Bouncey



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Flirty Jaskier | Dandelion, Flower Crown Seller/Bard Jaskier, Fluff, Getting Together, Gift Giving, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Modern Era, Mutual Pining, Past Domestic Violence, Public Display of Affection, Renaissance Faires, Romance, Shy Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Theatre, Trick Riding, knight Geralt, love tokens, no graphic descriptions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28783428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bouncey/pseuds/Bouncey
Summary: Geralt arrived at the fairgrounds at six-thirty in the morning, happy to have once again fulfilled his goal of beating the rising sun. He parked his rusty blue pickup truck in a convenient corner and swung himself down out of the driver’s seat with a happy little sigh. He didn't have to be Geralt deRiv for the next three and a half months. He didn’t have to deal with any stupid rich kids or their even richer parents or their sorely neglected (but gorgeous) horses; it was going to be just him and Roach and the Faire.orGeralt and Jaskier are both spending their summer working at the Northern Redanian Renaissance Festival; Jaskier as a flower crown merchant and Geralt as a knight and trick-rider.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 111
Kudos: 229





	1. Prologue: The Email

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crisscross](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crisscross/gifts), [thecomfortofoldstorries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecomfortofoldstorries/gifts).



> School is starting back up and I can't write a ton of little ficlets all the time on Tumblr like I have been, so I've decided to devote more of my time to a multi-chapter story. This one!  
> Dedicated to my lovely fandom wife, thecomfortofoldstories and my new and much loved artist buddy crisscross, whose drawings will appear in future chapters.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it.

To: Julian A. Pankratz 

From: Mona Vanderhausen

Subject: Important News Regarding NRRF 2021

_Dearest Jaskier,_

_I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially regarding our lovely little booth, but it appears that I will not be healthy enough to attend the Faire this year. Dr. Keller has requested that I stay indoors, stay cool, and give my lungs a chance to rest after surgery. It won't be safe for me to run the shop this year since my stitches could get infected. Frowny Face. Anyway, I hope that you're feeling up to running it all by yourself. If you'd really like to, you can take Amelia, but I thought this might be a fun opportunity to branch out and really grow your character this year. The bard is one of my favorites and I'll stop by for at least one afternoon to see him. Winky Face._

_I'm proud of you, my little Julek, for all the hard work and love you've put into this booth over the last few years. I don't think we would have done nearly as well without you. You're good with people in a way that so few can be; it leads me to wonder if there's any Fae blood in you. A blood-tie to the Fair Folk might explain those pretty blue eyes of yours! Ha! But I digress; you are the most wonderful assistant a grouchy old crone like myself could ask for. As your mentor and your friend, good luck on your own this year. I believe in you!_

_I hope you find all the happiness in the world. You deserve it._

_Stay magical, dear heart._

_-Mona_

Jaskier read through the email four times to make sure he was seeing things correctly. He'd be going to the Faire _alone?_ Totally unsupervised? Mona trusted him enough to leave him with all her wares, her belongings (the tent was hand-dyed wool from Mona's own sheep), and her _business_!? It wasn't that he thought himself incapable, Jaskier was just shocked that this wonderful lady would be so kind. He teared up, unable to suppress his turbulent emotions. 

"Oh Mona," he murmured to no one in particular. "I promise I'll make you proud. I promise."


	2. Weave the Stems Tightly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone gets where they need to be and we learn a little more about our main cast of characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might not update as quickly or regularly as "Thomas" or "Earthly Knight" did because I'm doing more classes than usual this semester, but it will get finished before the semester ends (I hope)! I have it all planned out, I promise. This is really fun to write and I hope you're all enjoying it, too!
> 
> "Maid of Athens" - Lord Byron
> 
> "Half-Hanged MacNaghten" - FullSet

Jaskier pulled a tall, high-backed stool over to his favorite spot at the workbench and turned on his phone. As he opened the Spotify app and began to scroll through his playlists, he asked the otherwise empty garage: “What should we listen to today?” 

Usually Mona would be there on her own stool, her wrinkled hands already digging through the drawers. She'd pause her search and answer with something like: “I’m experiencing very soft vibrations today, dear heart. Play something _yearning_.”

But Jaskier was alone this time, so nobody gave him the cryptically encouraging reply he was expecting. His heart gave a sad little _thump_ beneath his floral blouse and he let the phone go dark on its own. "Right. Well, I suppose I'll just have to keep myself entertained, then."

He gathered the floral tape and thin wire he used to form the bases of his crowns, organizing a day’s worth of supplies into neat piles within easy reach. Once he got started he didn’t want to have to stop. On the wall above him were a series of neatly labeled drawers, each containing a specific kind of plastic flower, usually with one or two different bloom sizes for adaptability. He pulled a few specific base-blooms out on instinct and laid them out, organizing the stems into neat little lines.  Jaskier wracked his brain for a fitting poem as his fingers started weaving the first few stems together, affixing them firmly around a wire hoop with pins and tape. It felt a bit like witchcraft, his habit of matching each and every handwoven crown with a poem or song, but it felt  _ right.  _ Mona had once said the reason his flower crowns sold so quickly was because he "imbued them with positive energy and happiness" (or something). Mona was  _ really  _ into the Renaissance lifestyle.

She was a large part of the reason Jaskier loved the Faire so much himself. 

The other two parts were the anonymity his character gave him and freedom that came with working at such loosely structured, childhood-dream jobs. He smiled to himself when he finally discovered the right words for this particular project. A long, thin hoop of chamomile blossoms already made up the base for the crown, with a few strands of forget-me-nots woven alongside them to add body and color. Small bursts of soft pink yarrow buds would fill in any gaps. As his fingers began to shape and design the crown more definitely, Jaskier’s voice broke the still workshop air with rather passionately murmured verse:

_ “Maid of Athens, ere we part, _

_ Give, oh give me back my heart! _

_ Or, since that has left my breast, _

_ Keep it now, and take the rest! _

_ Hear my vow before I go, _

_ Zoл mou sas agapo.” _

He chose a few medium-sized cornflower blossoms to start the crown’s larger pattern. He tucked and secured each of their less-bendable stems between the tighter weave of the base blooms, his fingers blurring as his pace picked up. This particular crown was forming quite naturally, without any problems, and it made him feel incredibly accomplished; Jaskier had been practicing for so long that his musician’s callouses had been covered over with flower-binding callouses.

_ “ _ _ By those tresses unconfined, _

_ Wooed by each Aegean wind; _

_ By those lids whose jetty fringe _

_ Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; _

_ By those wild eyes like the roe, _

_ Zoл mou sas agapo.” _

He wondered what  _ eyes like the roe  _ would look like as several lovely, dainty purple anemones tucked themselves gently between the cornflowers. Roe was orange, right? Or a strange orangey-yellow. Jaskier didn’t particularly care for warm colors like orange or red; his childhood bedroom had been pale blue and most of his favorite crowns were done in cooler tones. Greens, blues, purples, and pale pinks seemed the most vibrant and complementary to each other (or maybe he was biased because he had blue eyes and those colors looked good on him). Whatever the reason, the anemones fit perfectly into the developing floral theme.

_ “By that lip I long to taste; _

_ By that zone-encircled waist; _

_ By all the token flowers that tell _

_ What words can never speak so well; _

_ By love's alternate joy and woe, _

_ Zoл mou sas agapo.” _

Star-bursts of amaryllis filled in whatever space was left between the larger blooms, the soft pink brightening the crown and blending the top half with the smaller flowers surrounding them. He smiled to himself; he hadn’t even really been paying attention as he pulled and placed the central blooms. And what oddly specific meanings he’d chosen for this crown! Love, loyalty, friendship… 

_ “Maid of Athens! I am gone: _

_ Think of me, sweet! when alone. _

_ Though I fly to Istanbul, _

_ Athens holds my heart and soul: _

_ Can I cease to love thee? No! _

_ Zoл mou sas agapo.” _

He wrapped the finished product in two layers of tissue paper and placed it carefully alongside the rest of his ‘finished’ pile. Soon he’d be ready to go to the Northern Redanian Renaissance Faire and make Mona her yearly spending money at their (now his) booth. It was the first Faire he’d be attending without Mona to guide him and he was more than a little nervous about his character debut. He hoped the goofy ex-nobleman/bard he’d concocted was good enough for the lifers to appreciate. 

As he packed away the leftover flowers from the completed project and gathered a new array of colors for the next, Jaskier thought about the poem he’d chosen. Byron, a romantic after Jaskier’s own heart (although perhaps a little more zealous in his hedonism). He had chosen Byron for the Greek, perhaps;  _ Zoл mou sas agapo  _ was such a powerful line of poetry. Piercing to the very heart every time it rolled from his lips. He could feel the heaviness of those words thrumming in his blood whenever he recited that particular poem:

_ My life, I love thee. _

As he worked through the rest of the afternoon, Jaskier could help but let his mind wander to who the cornflower crown might someday belong to.

* * *

Geralt arrived at the fairgrounds at six-thirty in the morning, happy to have once again fulfilled his goal of beating the rising sun. He parked his rusty blue pickup truck in a convenient corner and swung himself down out of the driver’s seat with a happy little sigh. He didn't have to be Geralt deRiv for the next three and a half months. He didn’t have to deal with any stupid rich kids or their even richer parents or their sorely neglected (but  _ gorgeous _ ) horses; it was going to be just him and Roach and the Faire. 

_ And your friends,  _ his brain added helpfully, reminding him of all the people he’d been looking forward to seeing for the past three weeks.  _ Don’t forget your friends.  _

He whistled the chorus of Fairport Convention’s  _ Matty Groves  _ as he unloaded his industrial wagon from the pickup’s trunk and re-affixed the cast-iron handle. He’d decided to purchase a heavy gardening wagon last year, the kind that greenhouse owners used to haul saplings back and forth across their shops. He had used a little red Radio Flyer for his first handful of years working at the Faire but that hadn’t really been cutting it anymore. Now he could get his duffel bag of clothing  _ and  _ his heavy trunk of armor and weapons from his car to his tent in a single trip. It certainly beat three or four long walks back and forth, usually with Triss or Yennefer tagging along for the last two. They’d pleasantly chatter his ears off about one thing or another but they wouldn’t lift a finger to do any actual helping. He loved his friends, of course, but he liked to settle himself down in relative peace. 

This year his wagon was even emptier than usual. The Faire had sent out an email a few weeks ago letting the returning staff know that they didn’t need to bring their own camping supplies anymore. It was a lighter trip from the lot to the campground, which was nice, but it also unfortunately meant that Geralt wasn’t allowed to bring his historically-accurate, hand-made, deer-tallow-waterproofed canvas tent. Apparently the miserly old groundskeeper finally signed off on investing some of the Faire’s budget into decent staff accommodations.

Once Geralt had taken inventory of the wagon’s contents and everything was accounted for, he locked his truck and made his way down the trail to the staff campground. He knew every twist and turn in the dirt path by heart; this was his eighth summer playing Sir Geralt Roger Eric du-Haute Bellegarde for the Northern Redanian Renaissance Faire, and it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He passed and greeted a few of his friends from previous years, fellow lifers like himself who were muttering amongst themselves about the nice new tents.

The other early birds weren’t all that bad, in Geralt’s opinion, nor were the new digs. Arriving at his assigned one-man bunkroom, he took a moment to drink it all in. Dark navy canvas material that shone with a layer of protective  _ something _ was draped over a sturdy wooden frame. The way the tents were designed almost made them look like very small gazeboes without floors. The roof and door flaps could be secured from the inside with a layer of shiny metal snaps; on the outside, the doors could be held closed with a series of rope loops and corresponding polished wooden toggles. 

_ At least it’s somewhat historically accurate,  _ Geralt noted with a small half-smile.  _ At least they put a handful of dollars into upholding the aesthetic of the Faire rather than ordering something useful but generic.  _ He let himself relax into the atmosphere of the Faire and hefted his trunk of armor from the cart, shouldering his way into his new space. 

Just as he had finished unloading the last of his belongings into the tent, a high clear voice called his name: “Geralt, darling! You’re here!”

“Triss!” he spun around, managing to balance his stance just in time for her to launch her slim frame into his ready arms. “Someday you’ll surprise me enough to knock me over, but not today!”

“Alas,” she chuckled, releasing him from the embrace and ducking inside his tent. She took a comfortable seat on the center of the bed as if it was her own, smiling all the while. She bounced atop the thin cot before crossing her legs beneath the hem of her emerald green kirtle. “Maybe next year I’ll manage to best you, as unlikely as it is. I beat Yennefer, though, right!?”

The knight-for-hire rolled his eyes affectionately and knelt to unzip his duffel bag. “Of course you did. How did you get here and get into costume before  _ me,  _ though?”

“I drove here in costume and probably broke the speed limit.” This answer received another eye roll from Geralt. She leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands, elbows pressed into her bent knees. “How were your nine months spent in the real world?”

“I don’t want to remember the real world anymore, Ms. Merigold. I just want to unpack my shit, polish and prep my armor for rehearsal tomorrow, and get my swords sorted out and cleaned. We  _ will  _ start rehearsal tomorrow afternoon, right?”

“The next day, I think. Tomorrow is just hanging out, setting up, eating too much, and getting everyone settled in.”

“Fuck. I was excited to get Roach back in the ring; alright, then. My goals for today remain intact, regardless: unpack, polish, store, sort swords.”

“That could have been a tongue twister, my liege.”

“I can be clever when the mood strikes, my lady.”

“Too bad it strikes so very rarely,” Triss teased, moving out of the way as Geralt opened his armor trunk and started unloading pieces of plate metal onto the bed. “But really, are you doing okay financially? How’s Roachie girl? How’s your-”

“Yes, Triss, I still have my  _ entire  _ retirement fund intact and my apartment isn’t infested with any sort of bug, reptile, or rodent. Roach gets four visits a week and regular treats. I haven’t lost or gained any weird amounts of weight, nor am I having any negative thoughts about myself or my value as a person.”

“Good to hear. Also good to hear that our discussion about seeing a therapist paid off.”

“How' s Yennefer?” he asked, not-so-subtly steering the conversation away from the uncomfortable subject of his personal life. Triss blushed and punched him gently in the shoulder, already distracted from her previous line of questioning.

“Hush.” Geralt gave a sad excuse for a chuckle and picked Triss up off the bed. He set her on the closed lid of his now-empty armor trunk instead, where she gave an offended, ladylike sniff and placed the back of her hand delicately over her forehead. “You rude, brutish, horrible man.”

“You know it,” Geralt winked.

“Well, speaking of my darling, dark-hearted sorceress, I actually sort of told Yen that I’d help her and Renfri play welcome-wagon for one of the new kids this year,” Triss wiggled her fingers in lieu of a wave as she stood and backed out of the tent. “So I’ll see you at dinner.”

Geralt glanced up from where he was kneeling by his duffel. “New kids? I didn’t see any new names in the email chain.”

“Well he’s not exactly  _ new  _ by general Faire standards, but he’s running Mona’s flower crown tent by himself for the first time this year; apparently he’s like some kind of hair accessory  _ wizard.  _ He sold some of Mona’s crowns at one of the touring Faires last year and their sales went up by nearly two-hundred percent.”

“Damn.” 

That was actually incredibly impressive. Everyone usually bought the cheap ones from traveling vendors, but Mona had been selling relatively expensive, high-quality crowns for years and making a decent living. If this kid could double her already amazing sale figures, he must be a whiz. 

“To be fair, he  _ is  _ pretty adorable. Totally your type,” Triss shrugged, winking obnoxiously. “Anyway, tootles!”

Geralt sighed and pulled his most casual and character-appropriate costume pieces from his bag. Changing clothes would finalize his transformation from Horse Trainer to Knight Errant. Then, once organized and in character, he could explore the rest of the Faire and meet up with his friends at the big bonfire for first-night drinks. 

* * *

“Renfri,” the brunette whined, tugging at the sleeve of his friend’s red tunic. “Why didn’t you tell me to arrive in costume!? I’m going to feel like an idiot wandering all the way to my tent to change. I look like… I look like a  _ newbie _ !”

“Jaskier, darling, if you rip this material I will stab you for real,” Renfri glared. He released her sleeve and yanked his hand away quickly, wary of the many little knives he knew she kept on her person. Renfri sighed and shook her head, “Don’t be a little bitch, Buttercup. If you hurry up and change now, maybe nobody will point and laugh..”

Jaskier flopped onto his best friend’s very comfortable floor-insulating rug and splayed out like a starfish. After a moment of silence he asked, “Where’d Triss go?”

“To see her best buddy in all the world,” Renfri smiled. “If she doesn’t get to see Geralt before Yen then she gets all sullen and goofy.”

“Who are Geralt and Yen?” he asked. 

“Geralt is one of Triss’s old college pals. He’s one of my fellow knights. He also does trick riding exhibitions during certain special event weekends and teaches basic sword-handling skills to kids.”

“Aww,” Jaskier crooned, sitting up and crossing his legs. “He sounds sweet.”

“He’s pretty nice. Very quiet, though.”

“And Yen?”

“She does children’s magic shows in the mornings and does palm reading in the afternoons when it gets too hot to move around a lot.”

“Smart.”

“She’s terrifying and  _ very  _ hot.”

“Alright,” Jaskier sighed, finally standing up and stretching. “I’m going to get into costume and find my way to the food. I want to forget the real world for the next three months entirely. I want to be  _ Jaskier the Bard _ , not  _ Julian the exhausted college student _ . Not Julian the politician’s son. Not Julian, whose Teen Vogue article about coming out was distressingly underwhelming. Not Julian, whose ex-boyfriend cheated on him with his own sister. Just Jaskier: dumbass extraordinaire!”

“Well after drinks tonight,” Renfri winked playfully at her long-winded friend, “I’m sure you’ll forget about all of those things and a few more to boot. Fuck, you’ll probably even forget your middle name.”

“Alfred is a stupid middle name anyway.”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

* * *

The back of Geralt's skull buzzed with liquor-warm joy. He was leaning back against one of the food stall counters and Triss was huddling against his side for warmth; in front of them the flames of a large bonfire rose towards the sky and a ring of lifers and employees chatted softly with each other. A group of musicians had taken up residence on a half-rotted stage near central camp. It was just a drummer, a guitarist, and a waiflike blonde fiddler with ashen hair. They'd been doing generic folk songs for half an hour or so before a young man with messy brown hair bounced up from his seat next to Renfri and whispered into the fiddler’s ear. The girl’s blonde hair bounced as she nodded, a grin breaking across her face. She turned and chatted with her bandmates, who all smiled and replied to the young man's request with clear enthusiasm. A few moments and experimental drum beats later, a tune struck up and the young man cleared his throat, taking on a storyteller’s posture; strong shoulders, hands loose and ready to gesture, a tell-tale sparkle in his  _ unusually  _ blue eyes. 

The knight nearly fell over when a soft, sweet tenor filled the air a few moments later:

_ “Come closer to the fireside; pull in your chair, _

_ I've a story to tell you; faint hearted beware! _

_ It's a tale of tragic sorrow, and dark deeds of love; _

_ I'm the only man here knows the truth, and I'll tell you all I know. _

_ “This talk of John MacNaghten and his darling Mary Ann, _

_ And how he came to hang that day in the town of Strabane. _

_ It's true that he shot Mary Ann, put her in the grave, _

_ Yet every lady in the land prayed that he'd be saved.” _

Geralt realized he was tapping his foot along to the beat halfway through the second verse and Triss elbowed him in the side, chuckling softly. Rather than pretend to be embarrassed, Geralt set his empty mug on the nearest flat surface and reached for his friend's hand. Triss accepted his unspoken invitation with an air of utter confusion. 

“Dance with me?” he murmured. The confusion on her face was quickly replaced with fond amusement and she let herself be pulled further into the ring of Faire employees. 

_ “Now Mary Ann was just fifteen, a beauty seldom seen; _

_ With golden hair and skin so fair which nothing could exceed. _

_ MacNaghten bowed and took her hand, she curtsied gracefully, _

_ He vowed to marry Mary Ann and so their fate was sealed! _

_ “Miss Knox was soon enchanted with MacNaghten's worldly way, _

_ As hand-in-hand they strolled the land that would all be hers someday. _

_ She said she'd gladly be his wife if her father would agree, _

_ But he said he'd rather see her dead than in MacNaghten's company.” _

Geralt spun Triss through a slow, simple jig and smiled gratefully when she made up for the steps he missed. He was a good dancer when he remembered all the movements, dancing was exactly like wielding a sword when you thought about the mechanics, but it had been a long while since he’d had the chance to practice. Luckily, nobody here was going to judge him for having fun. The singer began to clap to the beat as he continued, helpfully marking out the places Geralt knew he needed to move. When he glanced up, the singer’s eyes were trained on him and him alone.

_ “MacNaghten's mind grew wild with rage as he forged his final plan: _

_ He’d kill the haughty Andrew Knox and take his Mary Ann! _

_ The coach was bound for Dublin town; the Knoxes all on board; _

_ In Strabane he made his stand with a pistol and a sword. _

_ “MacNaghten thought that Mary Ann was seated on the right, _

_ He shot three times through the left and the bullets pierced her side. _

_ Andrew Knox then fired two shots; MacNaughten quickly fled... _

_ But he was now a hunted man and Mary Ann was dead.” _

Geralt wasn’t sure why, and as he laid in bed later and thought about it he still couldn’t really find a legitimate reason for his behavior, but the longer the song went on, the more impressive his dancing seemed to become. He wasn’t sure if it was his need to impress the young brunette with the siren's voice (Geralt had been captivated with the way he made the story seem real as he wove the notes and words together) or if it was just his body getting back into the groove of things. It could have been a little bit of both, but Geralt quickly found himself showing off with fancier footwork. He missed fewer steps and even lifted Triss into the air a couple times, spinning her so that her brightly colored skirts fluttered prettily around her legs. He really hoped Yennefer was watching and getting a little jealous. That had been his intention when asking Triss to dance with him, after all. He knew his two best friends were too stubborn to ever say anything to each other and he was tired of watching them avoid their feelings. This year he was going to do something about it.

Still, his eyes seemed drawn to the mysterious singer. He looked downright _pretty_ in his light blue chemise and navy silk breeches, which had been left unbuckled and loose just below his knees. Geralt felt the sudden and highly unusual urge to introduce himself. Maybe... when the dance was finished...

_ “MacNaghten soon was caught and tried; they sentenced him to die _

_ But his words of love for Mary Ann brought tears to the ladies' eyes. _

_ On the gallows he was proud and brave; he spoke no final words. _

_ He put the rope around his neck and he jumped off with great force. _

_ But the rope broke with a mighty crack and fell down to the ground. _

_ The soldiers, they all turned their backs and the people gathered round; _

_ They called out to MacNaghten to take the chance and run, _

_ But he climbed back on the gallows as the crowd sat still and stunned.” _

* * *

Jaskier watched as the handsome, white-haired stranger in the all-black ensemble danced with an equally gorgeous woman at the center of the gathered Faire folk. The man only knew a few simple jigging steps but he was doing his best to make his partner laugh, flinging her easily through the air with those two broad hands around her waist. They nearly encircled it completely. The vendor/bard had to focus much harder on finishing the song than he usually did; the sight of the dancers was tugging at a feeling deep in his chest that he’d rather not acknowledge. 

_ “It was then he spoke his final words; his voice was cracked and dry. _

_ There was silence in the winter air and a strange look in his eye. _

_ He said that he would rather die than live his life in shame; _

_ He'd rather die than have Half-Hanged MacNaghten be his name! _

_ “Now the hanging of MacNaghten and the death of Mary Ann _

_ Is known by rich and poor alike all across the land _

_ They say it's because of love of gold that Mary Ann Knox died _

_ But you know now the story's told they both were killed by pride.” _

The crowd broke into applause and he gave a few exaggerated bows, gesturing for the band to do the same. He smiled brightly at the fiddler. "Thank you, dear heart, that was lovely."

"Oh, you must be Mona's protégé!" the girl grinned back just as happily. "She's the only one around here who uses 'dear heart' so liberally."

"You'd be correct."

"Well then, any friend of Mother Mona's is a friend of mine. You're welcome to sing with us anytime. Actually, do you know _The Bonnie House of Airlie_?" 

"Of course, I'm not a heathen!" Jaskier chuckled. "Why?"

"Would you guys mind if he joined us for a bit?" the fiddler asked her bandmates. The other two shook their heads. 

"Nah, he's got a good set of pipes," the drummer stated. Jaskier blushed lightly.   


"Well, thank you!"

"Alright then. I'm Essi, by the way."

"I'm Jaskier, bard and purveyor of fine flower crowns."

"Lovely to meet you. Now, shall we?"

Essi pulled the bow across the strings and the circle went quiet again. Jaskier's heart filled nearly to bursting with the rush of a good performance, letting himself fall into the words as naturally as breathing.

This was going to be an amazing summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're an artist who does commissions and you dig the plot, please feel free to hit me up. I'd love to get some more art for this story.


	3. A Midsummer's Daydream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to try and post a chapter every ten days or so, but I keep getting really good ideas and the chapters get longer than I anticipated.
> 
> Oops.
> 
> "Bonnie House of Airlie" - FullSet

Jaskier was only a morning person during the summer months. He liked to rise before the ass-crack of dawn and wander through the empty fairgrounds in his costume, pretending for a moment that it was all _real_. He could imagine that he really _was_ just a traveling musician and flower-seller, plying his wares whenever and wherever he could. Playing music to earn his keep. There were no degrees to finish or parties to attend in his parents’ honor. There was no bowing to foreign dignitaries in his own living room, there was no vague recognition in the eyes of his customers as they tried to remember the last magazine cover he'd graced; he was merely a bard, living a life on the road, maybe searching for love or inspiration as he moved from place to place.

He knew it was a silly dream, but his moments of make-believe on quiet summer mornings kept him sane during the time he spent in reality. 

On the morning before the Faire officially opened, the eager bard woke even earlier than usual. He quickly dug through his trunk and pulled on his most comfortable pair of deep green trousers, a plain white poet shirt that opened to his collarbones and wouldn’t give him heat stroke halfway through the day, and a pair of sturdy brown leather boots. Sufficiently dressed, Jaskier slipped from his tent and out into the foggy grey light of pre-dawn. 

The first thing he needed to do was head to the Boar's Tit Tavern and grab Mona’s hand-made tent and stall supplies. All the vendors’ personalized stall tents and leftover stock were stored in the tavern over winter since it was one of the few fully weatherproofed buildings on the premises. He and Mona kept their things in the back left corner for ease of access, since that was the spot closest to the back door. Jaskier snuck into the building quietly, grabbed the familiar teal rubbermaid bins from their place, and headed off towards their personal plot of fairground; he wanted to get the tent up and organized in time for lunch, so he could spend the evening with Essi and her band.

Thank goodness it wasn’t a long walk between the Boar and the Grounds because Mona’s hot-pink tent was made of homespun, weather treated wool and it was fucking _heavy._

Once Jaskier reached the wood frame of his stall, the bard unpacked the rubbermaids and sat them out in a neat row, breathing heavily from exertion the entire time. Once he felt like a person again, Jaskier bundled the tent cover over his shoulder and breathed deeply once more, inhaling the old woman’s familiar, lingering chamomile and cinnamon scent where it stuck to the material. Every fiber of soft pink cloth had passed between her old, crooked fingers. On the loom, in the dye vat, and again every year when she hung it up at for the Faire. Mona was surrounding him even now, from halfway across the Continent.

Bolstered by some solid element of his mentor’s presence, the brave young vendor clambered up onto the rickety wooden step stool he’d found by the knights’ break tent; it wobbled ominously beneath his feet for a moment but he managed to catch his balance before he could topple over. Used to making some sort of noise as he sat in the shop all day, Jaskier began to sing quietly to himself, the same song Essi had asked him to perform the night previous:

_“It_ _fell on a day, on a bonnie summer’s day,_

_The sun shone bright and clearly,_

_That there fell out a great dispute_

_Between Argyle and Airlie.”_

He hefted the material onto the stall’s ancient wooden frame and tried with all his might to get the far flap to go over the point of the roof. 

It was not cooperating.

Jaskier grunted and shifted his body up onto the crossbeam, supporting himself with one arm while the other flicked the material into place. He blew his hair out of his eyes and balanced there for a moment longer, singing the next verse of the song with joyous abandon, like a bird moments from taking flight:

_“Argyle has mustered a thousand of his men,_

_He’s marched them in right early._

_He’s marched them up past the back of Dunkeld,_

_To plunder the bonnie house of Airlie.”_

He lowered himself back down to the stool and began to fasten the first tent wall into place against the beam with a series of hooks. He dragged the stool along with him as he moved down the beam, making sure to balance carefully before stretching to his full height. 

The repetitive movement of hooking the tent into place calmed him and settled what few nerves had remained after the bonfire.

He missed Mona dearly. Working at the Faire wouldn’t be the same experience without her sage advice or grandmotherly patience, but Jaskier was happy to do this for her. She needed the money and to be honest, Jaskier needed the break.

_“'Come down, come down, Lady Ogilvie,’ he cried,_

_‘Come down and kiss me fairly._

_Or I swear by the hilt of my great broadsword,_

_I’ll never leave a standing stone in Airlie.’”_

Jaskier didn’t hear the sound of footsteps or horse hooves approaching from behind, too focused on getting the accented inflections of the song right and getting the stall walls properly secured to the frame. From a short distance away, the strange white-haired man from the night before tried to keep his steed from interrupting the tune by stomping her hooves or drawing the singer’s attention. He slowly ran his gloved hand down the mare's broad nose and made soft noises into her ear, his own hearing focused on Jaskier's bright, clear tenor.

_“‘Oh, I wouldn’t come down, you cruel Argyle,_

_And I would not kiss you fairly._

_Oh I wouldn’t kiss you, false Argyle,_

_If you didn’t leave a standing stone in Airlie!”_

When Jaskier moved to adjust his position for the next series of hooks there was a sudden, loud _crack._ Two of the stool’s legs had snapped without warning and the bard found himself wind-milling backwards through the air, arms flailing for balance and failing to find it. The stranger darted forward to catch him purely on instinct and Jaskier managed to fall directly into the man’s waiting arms, a scream stopping half-way up his throat. The bard/vendor gave a breathless little laugh when a section of the unpinned tent material flopped forward to cover his face, effectively blinding him. He wriggled in his savior’s arms, trying to find his footing again, “Oh, I’m so sorry! My apologies! Please, set me down so that I can properly thank my hero.”

Jaskier was helped into a standing position on solid ground before the wool was literally pulled away from his eyes, revealing his rescuer’s (still mysterious) identity. He blinked up into the face of the handsome white-haired dancer from the bonfire. The one who had spent all evening with Triss. “Oh, hello there! You’re Triss’s friend!”

“Yeah, uh… hi.”

“Thank you for rescuing me, friend of my friend. Very chivalrous of you, indeed. What perfect timing you have!”

“And what great teeth he has, too,” Renfri added, coming up behind the stranger and throwing her arm around his shoulders. Mystery Man didn’t even bat an eye at her sudden appearance, choosing instead to roll them fondly - _were those contacts, or were his eyes really that color? -_ and elbow Renfri lightly in the ribs in a failed attempt at dislodging her. She winked at Jaskier before baring her own rather impressive canines, “They’re all the better to eat you with, Buttercup. Anyway. Jaskier, this is Geralt. Geralt, this is my friend from school, Jaskier.”

“Oh!” the bard clapped excitedly. He bounced up onto the balls of his feet and smiled as warmly as possible, “I’ve heard so many lovely things about you!”

“Hmm,” Geralt frowned and shot a glare in Renfri’s direction. She held up her hands, palms out in surrender, shaking her ponytail back and forth.

“Wasn’t me,” she lied. 

“Hmm,” Geralt repeated. “I’m going to finish cleaning up and get Roach’s tack in order. Try to have Billy Idol's stall mucked out by lunchtime, please. It's a disaster in there.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Renfri said, letting her arm fall gracelessly from Geralt’s shoulder and back to her side. When the white-haired knight was out of earshot, Renfri turned to Jaskier, grinning ferally. “So, what do you think of Sir Geralt Roger Eric du-Haute Bellegarde?”

“He seems… quiet.”

“He's just shy,” she waved dismissively. “He’ll warm up to you in time, I promise. Ask him about Roachie girl when he’s three pints deep and you’ll have a new best friend. Or, you know, _boyfriend._ ” 

Jaskier blushed furiously and batted ineffectively at her armor. “Don’t you have to go practice being butch or something?”

“Don’t you have a tent to finish setting up or something?”

“Fuck off,” Jaskier stuck out his tongue. His best friend replied in kind, flipping him the bird for added measure as she stalked off towards the knights’ break tent. It was conveniently located across the walking path from Jaskier’s own booth, so he and Renfri could chat during their breaks and eat lunch together when the mood struck. It also meant that he could watch her (and perhaps Sir Geralt) when they jousted or led weapon demonstrations. 

As he unfolded and dusted off his two canvas camp chairs, Jaskier was endlessly grateful that he’d made friends with some of the Faire lifers aside from Mona. Renfri and Triss were already cushioning the blow of losing his mentor’s physical presence, always sure to send him a smile, wave, or in Renfri’s case, a middle finger when they passed by. Friends, Jaskier knew, were the secret to having a great time in any situation. That’s why he always made sure to remind Renfri that he loved and cared about her despite her grumpiness. In fact, a good amount of his affection for his best friend stemmed from her more aggressive personality traits. They were the last line of defense before Renfri revealed herself to be a truly sweet and wonderful girl. Someone who just wanted to protect others and be loved in return.

Jaskier was more than happy to lavish her with the attention and friendship she so desired. It only made things easier that they didn’t get along in a romantic capacity _at all._ The thought never really crossed their minds, either. Jaskier smiled to himself at the memory as he began to untie the crown-hangers that lined the tent's inner walls.

Jaskier had met the fierce brunette in the hall of their co-ed dorm; Jaskier had been standing nearly-nude in the hallway, locked out by a cruel roommate, and Renfri had been heading to the showers in her full soccer kit, cleats still tied and leaving small, circular grass stains on the carpet. "Is he being an asshole?"

"Yeah. Called me... some stuff. It's not a big deal really. I just want to get in there and, you know, get dressed. Get something to cover my modesty that's uh- a bit- warmer? The circumstances don't really matter."

"Oh." Her eyes had narrowed dangerously. For a moment Jaskier had thought she might make things worse by stealing his towel or kicking him in the shin. " _Are_ you, you know...?"

"Yeah. I'm-" he had floundered for a funny euphemism. "I identify with erotic Otherness of Dracula's narrative, if that's what you're asking."

Renfri had thrown back her head and laughed, her brown curls bouncing as she snorted and guffawed. That had been the moment they'd become inseparable. 

“I got this,” she had asserted next, aiming carefully before kicking the door wide open with relative ease. “It’s all in the thigh strength, Buttercup.” 

And Jaskier would give up his life if it meant making Renfri happy like that. 

Triss was a different story entirely. He’d only met her last year, when she’d come to ask Mona for advice about some interpersonal problems at work. The willowy, heavily-freckled brunette had hung around near the entrance of the tent and spoken with Mona in low tones, her face flushing whenever the old woman raised her voice too high or mentioned _Jenny_. Whoever the hell Jenny was, Jaskier still had no idea. A friend, maybe? Or a neighbor? Regardless, Triss had spent all last summer whispering about Jenny’s mysterious behavior when on break from her own private stall.

Since Triss had a trustfund and nowhere else to use it, the tea-vendor had invested in renting out one of the wooden structures for her wares last year. It appeared that her plan remained the same this time around; Jaskier watched as Geralt flew from the knights' practice field to help her tote a heavy box from her hot pink Radio Flyer wagon to the open doorway of her shop. Somewhere just behind the tent and out of view, the bard heard someone release a deep sigh. A melancholy sigh.

 _T_ _he sigh of a wistful, forlorn lover,_ his poetic mind provided.

“Is someone yearning on these premises?” he asked, peeking his head around the corner. Standing a few meters away in total stillness, partially obscured by a few decorative banners, was Yennefer. Jaskier had been briefly introduced to the dark haired woman at the fire the night before; she was one of Triss’s friends from work or school. He couldn’t remember. Jaskier only vaguely remembered throwing some _Legally Blonde_ quotes back and forth with the intimidating magician, but at that point in the evening he’d been decently sloshed and couldn't be held entirely responsible for his choice of banter. “Oh, hello over there. Yennefer, right?”

“Yeah,” she blushed, tossing her head (and impressive mane of black waves) back and forth in a way that Jaskier recognized. He referred to that particular gesture as the _Emotional Etch-a-Sketch_. Sometimes the only way to dislodge a nasty thought was to shake it loose, and that’s exactly what people tended to do. He smiled warmly as the light of recognition entered her violet eyes, “I remember you. Jaskier, I think? Renfri and Triss’s friend?”

“That would be me,” he grinned. Sensing her discomfort with being caught sighing over either Geralt or Triss, the bard continued quickly onward. “Are you busy at the moment?”

“No, why?” Yen asked, crossing her arms over her chest and cocking her hip to the side. The stance was defensive and Jaskier realized just how little she trusted the world around her. For most people it probably came off as cool, sexy confidence, but Jaskier knew exactly what the fear of rejection looked like.

He did the same kind of shit all the time.

The bard softened his smile and gestured toward the tent, “I could use a hand unwrapping my wares. It’s so boring all alone. I'd love someone to gossip with.”

“Why should I help you, instead of Triss or Renfri?” she asked. "I know them better."

“Because I’m adorable and I can sing,” he pouted dramatically. She gave in with an equally theatrical sigh, making her way between the flaps of the tent and claiming Mona’s old blue canvas camp-chair rather imperiously as her own. Jaskier settled into his usual green one and opened up the first rubbermaid marked “Holdover”. 

“How did you end up as Mona’s apprentice?” Yennefer asked. She was carefully unwrapping one of Mona’s old creations from its tissue paper prison, diligently unfolding each individual leaf and petal, fluffing them into place. 

“By accident.”

“Alright, _bard_ ,” the magician teased. “Tell me the story properly. I know you want to.”

“You’re a good sport, Yennefer, and I appreciate that about you already. Now!” he clapped twice for emphasis, his voice pitching lower as he began his tale, “I was a sophomore in college, desperate to earn some money but equally desperate to avoid talking to people outside my already overwhelming business and communications classes...”

With a few fun embellishments and a few omissions of detail, Jaskier laid his and Mona’s story out for Yennefer. The magician laughed and poked fun at all the right spots, drawn in and cheered by Jaskier’s natural storytelling skills. She felt the tension in her shoulders fading, as well as the ache that had invaded her heart when she’d seen Triss and Geralt cozying up in the doorway of the tea stall. The younger man's naturally giddy disposition chased away the shadows that threatened to ruin the beautiful morning. 

“May I ask why you were sighing so sadly earlier this morning?” Jaskier finally asked, his story complete. The two diligent workers were already moving from the first rubbermaid to the second. Flower crowns hung all around them, secured to and displayed againt the tent walls by tiny loops of fabric. Other, more elaborate crowns and tiaras decorated the curved cast-iron hooks that peppered the support beams, filling the space with color and more of Mona’s gentle floral old-lady smell. 

“It’s… Well, it’s complicated and stupid.”

“That was almost one of my favorite Lady Gaga songs,” Jaskier joked. He took on an affected falsetto and sang out, “Got my ass squeezed by sexy Cupid.”

Yennefer laughed, a real _genuine_ belly laugh that made Jaskier smile in turn. She looked at him with her sharp violet eyes and sighed, “It’s Triss, actually.”

“What about her?”

“I seem to find myself rather head over heels in love with her,” Yennefer sighed again, more deeply this time. “I had been planning on confessing my feelings this year and suggesting we try living together once the Faire was over but now it appears that I’m too late. She spends every waking moment of her free time with Geralt; they're always dancing together, whispering to each other, hugging and…”

“Hey,” Jaskier laid a gentle hand on Yennefer’s shoulder and wasn’t offended in the slightest when it was angrily shrugged off. He took the opportunity to reach for one of his better crowns. It was composed of bright and daring blooms, bursting with deep purple dahlias and dotted with bold gerbera daisies in a variety of pinks and purples. It would match Yen's eyes _perfectly._ He placed the crown in Yennefer's open palm and closed her fingers over it, “Take this. Wear it to the bonfire next Friday night and see what happens.”

“Mona said you made these with secret enchantments,” Yen murmured softly. “That’s why they always sold first, before hers.”

“Not true,” Jaskier scoffed dramatically in return, trying to lighten the mood again. “Neither one of those statements is accurate, my Lady. Mona’s crowns were and probably _will remain_ twice as popular as mine _and_ I do not put enchantments on any of my wares. I just recite poetry or sing while I work. Each crown comes with its own inspiration, which I suppose could be a spell, if you wanted it to be...”

“Do you remember what you recited when you made this one?” Yennefer asked, still half-whispering. Something about this moment _did_ feel magical, Jaskier realized. It felt strong and exciting and intimate. The young bard felt his heart surge with happiness and a little bit of personal pride. He was making another friend. A _real_ friend. All on his own. 

“Yeah, I remember” he nodded. “You’re going to laugh at me, though.”

“What is it?”

“ _Fool_ , by Alyson Stoner. You remember her from the Disney Channel, right?”

“Psh, of course I remember _Alyson Stoner_ from the Disney Channel, Jasky. She was Max, the proto-lesbian from Suite Life of Zack and Cody. _And_ she played the hip-hop keyboardist in _Camp Rock._ ”

Jaskier winked. “She’s a queen.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer said, serious once again. “I mean it. But please don't tell anyone what we talked about.”

“Of course not, Yenna dearest,” he comforted. “Everything you say within the walls of this tent is sacred.”

“Mona chose well.”

Yennefer’s parting words buoyed him through the rest of the afternoon, until he took a break for lunch with Renfri.

* * *

“Well Yen’s year isn’t off to a _great_ start,” Jaskier began, drawing the word out _great_ as if it carried a deeper meaning. "But I'm sure she'll cheer up once the tourists arrive; it's easier to be a performer with an audience than one without. Anyway, have you heard anything about Geralt and Triss, yet? I've heard a few rumors that they've things between them more _official_."

Renfri nearly snorted but managed to hold her immaculate composure. “Oh, have they? It hasn't come up.”

“Well Yen isn’t exactly sure, but they were dancing together last night by the fire and then this morning Triss came by to return a shirt of his. Apparently it had needed washing...”

“Fascinating how quickly the rumor mill starts turning,” Renfri chuckled. “So you and Yennefer are friends, now? Is there anyone you can't enchant, Buttercup?"

"Not a living soul," the bard smirked in reply. The topic slid from Geralt and Triss’ apparent summertime romance to Renfri’s lack of interest in her final semester courses. 

“Business school fucking sucks,” she grumbled, chomping down on her apple with a scowl. “Fuck family legacies, I wanted to be a gymnast.”

"I wanted to be a musician. I was going to travel the world."

"That makes sense. You're flamboyant and love attention. At least we have the Faire, right?"

"Cheers to the Faire, Renfri," Jaskier smiled, resting his head on her armor-padded shoulder. The lady knight let her cheek fall to rest against his temple, a soft smile playing over her own tired face.

"Cheers to the Faire, Buttercup."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I named Renfri's horse "Billy Idol".
> 
> No I do not accept criticism, constructive or otherwise (I do welcome comments tho). ;)


	4. Jigging and Reeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check out my friend crisscross (AO3) / mawbwehownets (Tumblr). He did the amazing art featured alongside this chapter and he's making my new icon! Fantastic artist and lovely person, all around. Go drop him some love if you get a moment.
> 
> "Age of Kings" - The Mountain Goats
> 
> "Téir Abhaile Riú" - Celtic Woman

* * *

Geralt watched from his seat in the nearly-empty stands as Mona’s apprentice laid his head against Renfri’s shoulder. The knight wondered at the jealousy that flared in his gut at the sight of them sitting so closely together and ignored the prickle of jealous heat that spread beneath his skin. There was no reason for him to feel that way at all; Jaskier and Renfri had known each other for years; it wasn’t like Geralt to be jealous of their friendship (which was definitely the cause of all this, not his attraction to the cheerful brunette). 

He noticed the way his friend and fellow knight relaxed, leaning her cheek against the crown vendor’s mop of brown hair. Geralt watched as her eyes fluttered closed and her shoulders sagged in relief; Geralt knew what _contentment_ looked like, even from twenty-five yards away. He smiled a bit to himself as the two brunettes suddenly reanimated, bumping their sandwiches together and taking matching bites; Renfri was a stone-faced grump ninety-five percent of the time and Geralt honestly wanted to know what it was about Jaskier that made her seem so soft and friendly when he was around. 

The knight errant jogged Triss’s elbow with his own, looking up from his crumbling beef pasty to nod in Jaskier and Renfri’s direction. “Are they… an item?”

“I don’t know,” Triss shrugged. She pulled a limp slice of tomato from her quickly-wilting salad and flung it into the nearby trash can, grimacing. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, just curious.”

Triss raised a silent eyebrow but didn’t say anything other than: “Okay.”

They finished eating their respective lunches quickly and started catching up with each other after nearly nine entire months apart. Despite his best effort to remain focused on Triss, Geralt couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from straying to Jaskier every few sentences. The younger man’s green satin trousers were dusty after half-a-day’s work and his hair was a wavy mess. The late-afternoon breeze caused his bangs to bob and sway, and the movement painted shifting shadows across his smiling face. Geralt found himself staring even more obviously at the other man’s shapely pink lips, his sun-flushed cheeks, and his pristine smile.

Triss, bless her heart, didn’t say anything about her friend’s disjointed additions to the conversation. She acknowledged his half-sentences as if they were complete ideas and hid her quiet laughter behind her fork when he tilted his head to the side and sighed unconsciously. She even managed to pretend (rather successfully) not to notice the growing pauses between his scattered replies. 

She did, however, trade a quick wink with Renfri.

* * *

Opening Day at the Northern Redanian Renaissance Faire dawned sunny and warm and perhaps a little breezy; ideal conditions for visitors, actors, and vendors alike. Jaskier had risen with the sun, like usual, and stood before his wooden clothes chest with his hands planted firmly on his hips. “What the fuck am I going to wear today?”

Usually he and Mona coordinated their outfits for Opening Day and the loss of their little tradition left the bard wallowing in the moors of indecision. With a heavy, determined sigh that seemed to have been pulled from the depth of his being, Jaskier reached for a peacock-blue ensemble. The gorgeously tailored three-piece set had been a collective birthday present from his four little sisters and he loved it endlessly. The seams of the trousers had been sewn so that the softly shiny faux-satin hugged his butt in a _very_ complimentary way and the matching vest (it would be too hot for a doublet this early in the season) was embroidered all over with cornflowers and violet buds. Since the outfit hadn’t come with a chemise, Jaskier opted for a white poet shirt with a daring, nearly impolite neckline that would keep him from getting heat-stroke before lunchtime. 

He topped the whole thing off with his cornflower-and-forget-me-not flower crown. A flower crown he’d constructed while listening to “Age of Kings” by The Mountain Goats. A soft, yearning song to juxtapose the bright, lovely day dawning outside his tent.

A first-day outfit _perfect_ for a bard/flower crown vendor. 

The overall effect of the completed look made him seem rather dainty and delicate, a startling visual effect that he’d grown incredibly fond of. It was hard to hide his wide shoulders and thick legs, but the cut of this particular set served his purposes well. He sang about fair maidens all the time, why not take the opportunity to act as one himself? Jaskier thought it was only reasonable that he get a turn to be the subject of the ballad, after all, since he was _usually_ the one writing them. 

The bard finished lacing up his sturdy brown boots with quiet urgency and sauntered off towards his tent, hips and arms swinging in time with his steps. He still needed to sweep the entrance free of debris, make sure the crowns had been hung and labeled properly, and ensure that his camp chairs hadn’t been burgled overnight. It was all busywork, of course, but he needed a few small tasks to keep his hands occupied before people started flowing into the Faire. 

That’s when things would really get interesting.

* * *

Jaskier watched from just inside the open flap of the tent as Sir Geralt led his enormous brown horse to the center of the jousting ring, where some of the other demonstrators had already lined up after being announced. The tall knight’s plate armor shone brightly in the early afternoon sun. It reflected the warm summer light nearly as well as his silver-white hair, which was currently pulled back into a loose bun. The bard itched to get his hands on Geralt’s gloriously well-mainted tresses; there were so many different kinds of braids he could weave into those long, silky strands. Jaskier licked his lips without thinking and tried to turn his attention away from the field and back to the customers milling around inside and loitering near his busy tent. There was business to attend to and he couldn’t spend all day staring at Triss’s maybe-boyfriend.

Regardless of his rational brain, tearing his eyes away from the jousters felt damn near impossible.

Even surrounded by the other knights and demonstrators, some of whom had incredibly intricate and fantastical looking armor in a rainbow of metallic shades, Sir Geralt’s plain silver chainmail shirt and pauldrons looked breathtaking. The way he held himself, with his broad shoulders squared back and his statuesque jaw tilted up a bit, made Jaskier go weak in the knees (thank goodness he was already sitting). A story began to form in Jaskier’s head as he let his gaze linger for another long moment. 

_Sir Geralt was most certainly a knight of low birth and tragic circumstances, who stood amongst his peers in well crafted but ordinary armor, his golden eyes flashing with grim determination in the early afternoon light. He would prove himself to his King and the people. He would conquer whatever task was given to him in the name of justice, honor, and truth. His pure, untainted heart beat as surely as his horse’s hooves when they pounded the dirt of th-_

“How much for this one?”

Jaskier was startled from his impromptu fantasy by a pink-haired teenager with eager eyes. She held a daisy-and-chrysanthemum headpiece a bit closer to his face and grinned, waiting for an answer. Jaskier plastered on his friendliest, most charming smile and said, “Those are fifteen apiece. I can add ribbons to the back if you’d like. I do that for free if the crown already costs more than ten.”

“No thanks, that’s totally okay. This one is perfect for my girlfriend the way it is. She doesn’t like the dangly stuff most other crowns around here have all over them, so she’ll be overjoyed with this one! Thank you so much!”

The young woman shot a doe-eyed glance towards her apparent beloved and scooped the money from her wallet without a second thought. Jaskier placed it in his belt-pouch with a thankful nod; anything with chrysanthemums was a work of Mona’s, which meant it was a crown without a poem or song attached. Jaskier smiled sadly to himself as he watched the pink-haired girl present the gift to her equally giddy girlfriend, who placed it firmly atop her black curls immediately and twirled around to show it off. The bard wondered if he should spend the night attaching poems or songs, at least in his own head, to the remaining crowns that had Mona made. It seemed like the right thing to do, absurd as it was. Nobody deserved to go without that added detail, even if he was the only one who really cared about instilling that little bit of secret magic into every crown.

He didn’t have much time to think about the absurdities of life, however, since a second wave of eager customers poured in through the Faire’s front gates and headed for the demonstration grounds (and Jaskier’s tent). 

After a few short chats with passers-by and a rather impressive number of sales under his belt, Jaskier relaxed back in his canvas chair to daydream again. He’d missed most of the jousting while occupied with his actual job and hoped that it would stay slow and steady enough in the afternoon for him to watch Renfri’s sword-sparring demonstration between customers. He still hadn’t been told which of the other knights would be her partner and he was excited to watch his best friend kick their ass all over the field. 

_Until then,_ he thought, _I can imagine what it would be like to be rescued from a tall tower by the handsome, capable Sir Geralt._

* * *

Geralt followed Renfri out into the jousting ring, which had been cleaned up and swept free of dust so that none of the actors were injured in the demonstrations. He watched his ‘foe’ shoot a quick wink in the direction of Jaskier’s tent and felt his own eyes following suit, taking in the sight of the beaming, pink-cheeked man from across the short distance. His hair looked even softer today than it had yesterday and its coppery tint shone clearly in the bright light of the afternoon sun. The knight watched in silent fascination as the younger man briefly licked his lips, perhaps a habit of his, and shook his brown bangs out of his eyes. Renfri’s voice interrupted his staring: “Geralt, you awake?” 

“Shit,” he muttered, turning his attention back to Renfri. “Yeah, I’m awake. I’m ready.”

“Stop leering at my roommate like a weirdo and get your head in the game, dumbass,” she teased below her breath, pulling her rather impressive sword from the sheath at her hip. Geralt pulled his own long silver blade from the handcrafted holster over his shoulder and felt its weight settle comfortably in his hand. His body lowered into the correct fighting stance automatically, his brain shutting out the rest of the world so that only he and Renfri and their weapons remained. 

“En garde,” the fight master called. The roar of the crowd was deafening in the best of ways, adding another layer of padding between him and everything else. With the roar of the crowd, the beating of his heart, and the soft shuffling sounds of his opponents feet moving in the dirt, Geralt finally felt that disembodied happiness that came with fighting. 

The knight lunged forward, their duel choreography imprinted so firmly in his muscles that he barely needed to think about his movements before he made them. He kept an eye on Renfri, of course, adjusting his speed and angle so that their strength and balance matched evenly blow-for-blow and didn’t break the rhythm. The point of these demonstrations was simply to show off how good they’d gotten at handlig their weaponry and the audience could tell from their smooth, almost effortless sparring that Geralt and Renfri were _top fucking notch._

Through the haze of adrenaline and exhaustion, high on the sound of the screaming crowd, Geralt registered the sound of one particular voice raised over them all. “Yeah, Renfri! That’s right, girlfriend! Kick his ass! Take him to _church!_ ” 

What kind of person used _Hozier lyrics_ as a battle cry?

Geralt felt Renfri’s blow to the back of his knees with more force than usual (the cost of letting his mind wander in the heat of battle) and the larger knight fell to a comfortable kneel in the dirt like they practiced a thousand times before. Renfri was breathing heavily above him, her brown flyaways plastered to her forehead with sweat and her nostrils flaring with every exhale. The sword in her hand was an extension of her arm, fearlessly challenging him to move by keeping its point against the soft area beneath his chin. 

Had Geralt been a real knight, a stranger at the mercy of this wild woman with fierce eyes and an even fiercer grin, he might have fallen in love that very instant. Instead, he waited for her to move the sword away. Geralt accepted her other hand and rocked up onto his feet, basking in the cheers from the audience as their performance drew to a close. 

“Nice fight,” she said, wiping her forehead against the back of her arm. “Jaskier seemed impressed.”

“Should his opinion matter?” Geralt grunted. He sheathed his sword in one smooth movement and turned to the crowd for a deep bow. The gesture was met with thunderous applause, whoops and hollers. From behind him, in the direction of the vendor’s tents, there came the sound of a slow, appreciative wolf-whistle. The knight blushed and Renfri elbowed him in the side on the way up from her own bow. 

“Apparently it already does.” With that, Renfri swept off toward the break tent, her sword still hanging comfortably from her hand. The ease with which Renfri carried and handled her weapon gave her an easy sort of butch confidence, but Geralt still wasn’t sure how close she was with Jaskier and he didn’t want to get in the way of a burgeoning romance. She called back over her shoulder, “You coming or what, slowpoke?”

Rolling his eyes, Geralt took off after her and left the ring open for the next performance, a pair of men with short-handled throwing axes. 

_You could just ask,_ the voice at the back of his mind suggested. _But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?_

* * *

Jaskier settled between Renfri and Essi on a low stone bench, a mug of mulled wine warm in his hands. “How went your first day at the Faire, My Ladies?”

“Call me a lady again and you’ll lose an eye,” Renfri sniped, her hazel eyes warmer than her tone. “It went well. You saw me kick Geralt’s ass, right? It doesn’t get much better than that.”  
“We made a remarkable amount of tips,” Essi agreed. “People were excited today; the tavern seemed to be bustling from open to close.”

“Do you think they were excited for the Faire to be open or for summer in general?” Yennefer asked, taking a seat on the bench directly across from them. Triss plopped down into the empty space beside Yen, their shoulders and elbows brushing with every miniscule movement. Jaskier and Renfri exchanged subtle but meaningful looks, which the rest of the group did not pick up on, thank the gods.

“They’re excited for the Faire, of course!” Triss declared. 

“What makes you say that?” Yen inquired, turning to her seat-partner. Triss blushed and glanced to their left, towards the growing bonfire and the shadows it cast along the ground. 

“Well, that’s what I’m always most excited for. I always really miss you… you guys.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows rose minutely at the pause in her speech and her minor emphasis on the first _you_. Maybe she wasn’t dating the handsome knight after all…

Then, as if summoned by Jaskier’s thoughts, Sir Geralt appeared and offered a hand to both Triss and Renfri. “Drinks are on me, ladies.”

“What about the rest of us?” Jaskier teased, taking the chance to speak with Geralt while he could. The knight’s gaze snapped up to meet his and the bard’s heart did a somersault in his chest. _Holy fuck, he’s even hotter up close and cleaned up. And with his hair down like that..._ The bard tried to hide his reaction as best he could and leaned his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his open palm. “C’mon, Milord, you wouldn’t leave the rest of us hanging, would you?”

Renfri was about to speak up and apologize for her friend’s borderline rudeness when Geralt chuckled and inclined his head in apology. “It would have been remiss of me to leave you all abandoned. My most sincere apologies Sir… uhm.”

Emboldened by the soft pink tint Geralt’s cheeks had taken on, Jaskier reintroduced himself with a flourish. “I am known as Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, poet and troubadour extraordinaire. Since you’re a friend of my darling Renfri’s, however, you may call me Jaskier.”

Geralt bowed formally, as one would do traditionally, to show respect to a liege lord, and smirked up through the curtain of his long white hair. “Milord Jaskier, then.”

Before the bard could scrape enough brain cells together to reply, the handsome knight turned on his heel and swept off towards the refreshments tent. Triss and Yen elbowed each other and Essi put the back of her hand to her forehead mockingly. “Swoon worthy performance, _Milord_.” 

“Shut the fuck up.”

“How come you didn’t do that when I introduced you earlier?” Renfri scoffed. “You theatrical slut.”

“Because I live for the drama and _he_ forgot my name. Please note, for the record, that it was not I who forgot the famous and well-respected title of Sir Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde!”

“What a mouthful,” Yennefer joked. The bard wriggled his eyebrows at her and elbowed Essi gently in the side. 

“He certainly looks like he would be.”

“Ew!” the blonde musician cried, shielding her eyes in mock bashfulness. “Gross!”

“What’s gross?” Geralt asked, returning with a tray of drinks. Jaskier continued to sip at his mulled wine, a light flush crawling up his face. Geralt seemed to notice the cup at last and narrowed his eyes, a teasing glint in them when he admonished Jaskier: “You didn’t even need a drink and I still bought you a beer out of pity.”

“I suppose you shall have to save me, my gracious knight, and slay it in my honor.”

Geralt accepted both beers with a soft smile and settled next to Triss on the bench, opposite Essi. “Hmm.”

Geralt and Triss disappeared to join the furthest ring of employees, lurking in the shadows with a handful of others shortly after they’d finished their drinks. Yen and Renfri bent their heads together to discuss current events and their lives outside the Faire; Essi gave Jaskier a meaningful glance and tossed her bouncy hair in the direction of the stage. “Wanna sing with us again?”  
“What song did you have in mind for tonight?”

“I want to get people dancing so I’m open to suggestions for any high-energy songs.”

“Let’s open with _Téir Abhaile Riú_ and then you guys can do the Tam Lin Reel, if that sounds good?”

“I like the way you think,” Essi beamed. 

The boisterous young woman gathered the other members of her small band together and herded them all onto the tiny stage near the edge of the firelight. Jaskier stood at Essi’s side, opposite her fiddling arm, and waited for the music to start. The drummer counted off a quick beat on the rim of his bodhran and then Essi was off, the high call of her fiddle prompting Jaskier into song:

_“_ _Look how the lights of the town,_

_The lights of the town are shining down!_

_Tonight I'll be dancing around,_

_I'm off on the road to Galway now!”_

Essi rolled her entire torso in a quick half-circle as she played, adding emphasis to the dramatic roll of her bright blue eyes. Her clear, crisp alto picked up the next verse and the guitarist, a slightly older woman with dark red hair, sang along as well: 

_“Look how he's off on the town_

_He's off on a search for sailors, though_

_There's fine fellas here to be found,_

_He's never been one to stay at home!_

_“Home you'll go, and it's there you'll stay,_

_And you've work to do in the morning!_

_Give up your dream of going away,_

_Forget your sailors in Galway!”_

Every member of the ragtag band, as well as a few members of the crowd, sang along to the chorus, which was written in Olde Skelligan: 

_“Téir abhaile riú, téir abhaile riú,_

_Téir abhaile riú Mhearai._

_Téir abhail gus fan sa bhaile,_

_Mar tá do mhargadh déanta.”_

Jaskier stepped down from the stage but continued to sing, reaching out his hand for Yennefer’s, a clear invitation to dance. The bard’s voice projected through the clearing, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he lilted his way through the second solo verse:

_“Come now, and follow me down,_

_Down to the lights of Galway where_

_There's fine sailors walking the town,_

_And waiting to meet the ladies there!”_

To many peoples’ surprise (including Yennefer’s) she accepted the offer and stood to her feet, allowing Jaskier to lead her through the first few steps of a simple jig. As soon as she’d gotten the pattern of movements down, he motioned for Triss to join in. Shortly after the three of them got into a rhythm one of the food vendors, whose name Jaskier had unfortunately forgotten, jumped in as well. By the time Jaskier the band reached the chorus again, there was a lively group of dancers reeling and jigging just to the left of the blazing bonfire. 

* * *

Geralt watched his friends twirl and giggle and leap from his seat on the bench, which he’d returned to after chatting with a few of his summertime neighbors. The knight was halfway between bemused and sleepy, his head feeling abnormally heavy atop his neck after a long day of lifting and riding and fighting and sweating. The singer was still belting as he skipped and swayed between partners, somehow as lively and cheerful as ever. His chest and forehead glimmered with sweat in the flickering light of the fire’s flames and Geralt felt his own cheeks heating slightly in response.

Nobody had the right to be so freakishly talented on top of being so goddamn adorable. It wasn’t fair, really. 

_“He’s here today and he's gone tomorrow,_

_And next he's going to Galway!_

_Jiggin' around and off to town_

_And won't be back until morning!”_

There was another rousing repetition of the chorus by every member of the lifer camp before Jaskier took up another solo, his voice having grown slightly gravelly from overexertion. He appeared rather suddenly before Geralt, the shape of his long-fingered hand burning its way through the thin material of the knight’s plain black shirt to brand his skin with sensation. Those blue eyes bore into his with playful intensity as he toyed with the hanging flap of Geralt’s half-open shirt-collar:

_“Off with a spring in my step,_

_The sailors are searching Galway for_

_A young laddie such as myself_

_For reels and jigs and maybe more…”_

He was pulled away from his theatrical flirting by Renfri, a wider grin than Geralt had ever seen before spreading across her usually impassive face as she tugged the singer back into the crowd. Essi’s voice took over again, leading the band and a few of the other employees in chastising Jaskier’s character for his behavior:

_“Stay here and never you mind,_

_The lights of the town are blinding you._

_The sailors, they come and they go,_

_But listen to what's reminding you!_

_“Handsome men surrounding you,_

_Dancing a reel around you!”_

Geralt felt his face flush when Jaskier winked at him during the _handsome men_ line and stood rather suddenly from his seat on the bench. It wasn’t right for Renfri’s boyfriend to flirt with him like this… or at least he was pretty sure his fellow knight had introduced Jaskier as her boyfriend. Geralt knew they lived together because Renfri had been ranting about Jaskier’s habit of stacking his mug collection rather precariously on the corner of his desk as he dirtied them. He knew they were friends and that they were comfortable snuggling in broad daylight but...

But were they _together_ together _?_

He heard Jaskier’s voice again, loud and lovely even over the cheers of the boisterous crowd: 

_“Stay a while and we'll dance together_

_As the light is falling;_

_We'll reel away till the break of day,_

_And dance together till morning.”_

The confused and tired knight made a beeline for his tent. This was something he needed to think about in the morning when he was sober and fully functional. He hurried away from the crowd of dancers so quickly that he entirely missed the look of disappointed acceptance on Jaskier’s face. 


	5. By The Stars in His Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well at least Yenenfer got her shit together.
> 
> "To You I Bestow" - Mundy
> 
> "The Roseville Fair" - FullSet
> 
> TW: Jaskier's cheating ex is brought up in this chapter. The F bomb is dropped a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is a little late. I got injured this week and the day it took me to recover put me behind schedule for both work and school.
> 
> Much love, the next chapter will be out on time :)
> 
> (edited after some continuity issues were pointed out by my pal crisscross; thanks for catching that, fam)

“If you hit the bullseye with that dart, I’ll buy you a brand new house,” Geralt laughed. He wiped a few strands of sweat white hair out of his eyes and set his empty mug on the countertop, shaking his head ‘no’ when Finnigan, the barkeep, offered him a refill. He hadn’t intended to drink much when he agreed to hang out with Renfri and the knights that evening. By some miracle he’d managed to stick to his guns, even when Renfri plied him with the promise of free tequila shots. He was downright _dangerous_ with tequila in his system. The clear, gut-warming alcohol was like a magic potion that turned him stupid, and Geralt was the kind of man who liked to keep his wits about him. 

“A very big house, with a stable?” 

“Sure, why not? That’s a very big _if_ now, isn’t it?” the older man teased. 

" _If_ I can get this dart in the middle,” Renfri slurred, her smirk nothing short of challenging, “Then you have to do your first exhibition of the season... _shirtless._ ”

Geralt liked his odds. “Alright then, deal. And if you miss?”

“I’ll do _my_ first exhibition of the season shirtless,” she laughed. In typical Geralt fashion, he rolled his eyes. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“That’s why you married me, darling,” Renfri drawled, laying her accent on thick. “Now suffer for your hubris, bitch!”

The inebriated knight took a confident step forward, stumbled, and chucked the dart at the cheap wooden dartboard. The two friends both watched in mutual fascination and horror as the dull metal point struck home, and stayed firmly stuck in the center of the target. The drunk brunette turned to face Geralt with a grin more menacing than the Cheshire Cat’s, “Ohhhhh you poor motherfucker. You shouldn’t have messed with me. I’m unstoppable! The Shrike of the North Woods!”

“ _Renfri,_ ” Geralt groaned, hiding his face in his hands as his friend began to laugh. “I can’t go through with that kind of thing! Please just let me buy you the house instead!”

“Jaskier is going to absolutely fucking _die,_ ” Renfri gasped through her giggles. She slapped at Geralt’s thick upper arm with all the energy of a small child trying to get its parent’s attention. “Oh my god he’s going to be so _happy!_ ”

“Wh-Why?”

“Cause he thinks you’re fuckin’ gorgeous, duh! What kind of right-minded bisexual _wouldn’t_ want to see all that glorious muscle?” she scoffed. “You have, what was it, _a glorious mane of silver-white hair_ and _eyes like liquid topaz in the sunlight_ and uh… oh gosh, the last part was really _really_ homosexual of him…” 

Geralt’s cheeks heated and he glanced away from her to gather his thoughts. 

_What the fuck?!_

Well... apparently there hadn’t been that many thoughts to gather. 

Renfri continued her little speech, unperturbed by his flush-faced silence. “Oh right! You have a rather _statuesque_ jawline, Geralt.” She paused, her expression and tone shifting from totally playful to near-sober severity. “Jaskier likes gentlemen, you know. The real, old-fashioned, chivalrous kind from books and stories and historical manuscripts. The kind of knightly person who would wear a lady’s token into battle and whisper sweet things into her ear when she seemed sad. He’s a romantic, my Jaskier.”

“Hmm.”

“Did you know that he’s an ambassador’s son? He hates living under that kind of intense, people-pleasing scrutiny, though. He loves attention and even loves to be the center of it, but he wants people to be looking at _him_ and not his parents. He wants to be appreciated and recognized for something _he’s_ done. Something he came up with and executed on his own. You know creative types.”

“Aren’t you both business majors?” Geralt interrupted. 

“And we both hate every fucking moment of it, yes. Thank you for reminding me _why I was getting drunk in the first place,_ Geralt. To forget about that for a hot minute and enjoy myself. Anyway, back to Jaskier-”

Renfri’s drunken revelations about the object of Geralt’s secretive affection were honestly appreciated but Geralt felt like he was overhearing things he shouldn’t be; he felt like he should tuck her into her cot as quickly as possible and stop her endless flow of details about the bard and his home life. Jaskier might not have consented to Geralt knowing those things, and that breach of confidence made him uncomfortable down to his very bones. 

“I think maybe it’s time for bed, my Lady.”

“Alright then, serf. Carry me to my chambers,” Renfri mumbled. She glanced up from beneath heavy eyelids and held out her arms; Geralt lifted her easily into a bridal carry and lugged her, now half-asleep and mumbling softly, the short distance from the pub to the campsite. The tired knight laid her beneath her weighted blanket and left a plastic bucket next to her pillow, just in case. As he was leaving he heard her whisper-shout urgently: “Wait! Geralt!”

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to do your exhibition shirtless. I- I know that would make you uncomfortable. It was just a joke while we were playing darts. And it’s okay that you know that Jaskier likes you. He said it was okay to tell you. He’s a good boyfriend, you know. Good boyfriend material.”

“Goodnight, Renfri.”

“G’night Gerry.”

“Hmm.”

He slipped out of her tent and meandered back to the men’s half of the campgrounds. He glanced at the loosely-closed flaps of Jaskier's tent as he passed it, listening as the soft sounds of lute music filtered out into the warm night air. It was a soft tune, and Geralt felt recognition prickling at the corner of his consciousness when he focused on the lyrics. 

Allowing himself a moment of weakness, the knight errant tucked himself into the shadows and stuck around to listen to the young bard sing. All the little pieces of Jaskier seemed so far apart. The high-spirited young man was a passionate musician with romantic tendencies, a business student with perfect grades at a top-tier school, and a celebrated queer icon… and he was _here?_ He was spending his summer at a Renaissance Faire, masquerading as a bard of noble(ish) birth who sold flower crowns and entertained in the evenings with no expectation of being repaid? 

_Why?_ Geralt wanted to know. The boy should be spoiled and silly and rude and… well, okay… he _had been_ some of those things over the last week or so; but it wasn’t horrible at all! It was just silly things that he complained about so loudly to Renfri that they sounded more funny than annoying and _oh no,_ Geralt’s thought process came screeching to a halt. _Those are real feelings. Those are real, intense, focused romantic feelings..._

“Fuck.”

The music came to a sudden halt and Geralt cursed again on instinct. 

“Is someone out there?” Jaskier’s voice called.

Geralt realized he was still standing outside the other man's tent like a total creep; he darted off into the darkness and out of sight, his heart hammering in his chest and his thoughts confused. 

_This was not good._

* * *

_“Well you may not see me when you come back,”_ Jaskier sang. The feeling of lute strings beneath his fingers was comforting, and he fell into the sensation like a warm blanket.

“ _I_ _could be sharing someone else’s pillow._

_My love for you is greater than diamonds!_

_To you, everything I bestow…”_

The calm did not last long as his thoughts organized themselves.

Fucking Valdo goddamn Marx and his fucking bubbly blonde assistant, _Daniel._ Fucking each other silly on _his_ goddamn King-sized bed. In _his_ and _Valdo’s_ shared apartment, which Jaskier paid for with _his_ work-study stipend money! Fucking… It wasn’t fucking _fair_ that Jaskier had gotten his heart ripped out _and_ gotten outed to the public all at once, even if he _was_ on the cover of Teen Vogue in the aftermath. He hadn’t been ready for his family to know. 

He hadn’t been ready to face their disappointment and confusion.

But Valdo hadn’t cared. And now Jaskier was out, alone, enrolled in business school, and miserable.

_“And tomorrow I’ll be dancing on my own,_

_And I’ll need a kiss for my head that’s aching._

_And I’ll be a hungry dog without a bone,_

_Hoping my place with you’s not taken…”_

He reached the chorus and his voice cracked. Jaskier blinked his tears back valiantly, plucking the strings with no small amount of anger as he continued, voice still soft and lilting despite the emotional whirlwind whipping through his chest cavity. 

Would things be different now, with the handsome knight? Did he want to risk that kind of disappointment and frustration again? If things fell through and he got his heart crushed by Geralt… would it have been worth it? 

_“Kiss me and tell me it’s not broken!_

_Kiss me and kiss me till I’m dead!_

_See, I’ll give you the stars from the bruised evening sky_

_And a crown of jewels for your head, now…_

_For your head now…”_

From the left of his doorway came a muffled and somewhat familiar, “ _Fuck.”_ The bard lifted his fingers from the strings and waited a moment. After a beat there was another muttered, _“Shit.”_

“Is someone out there?” he called, standing up from his cot and moving towards the door. He stuck his head outside and glanced around but couldn’t see any solid forms in the ever-shifting shadows of the forest surrounding the campground. He pulled his cashmere shawl closer around his shoulders and zipped his door closed for the evening, grateful for even the thinnest veneer of safety. “Well that was spooky.”

* * *

“Jaskier,” Yennefer called, jogging up to his tent just as he was buttoning the front closed at the end of his shift. “Hey!”

“I love you very much, Yenna, but I’m not unhooking all these fucking pins again for you. If you want a new crown you'll just have to crawl underne-”

“No, it’s not about your flower crowns. Well, it is, but it isn’t,” she explained in a rush. “I have some good news!"

"And what good news is that?" 

"I was waiting in line for food earlier this afternoon and I accidentally overheard Renfri and Triss chit-chatting; apparently Triss has a crush on someone."

"Geralt, right?" Jaskier clarified. This was old news, why was Yen bringing it up now? And making it sound so exciting?

"No!" she cried, practically jumping up and down. He'd never seen the usually stoic magician so giddy without a crowd of children in front of her. "She isn't dating Geralt! They're just good friends!"

"How do you know?"

"Because when Triss was talking about the person she liked, she used _feminine_ pronouns, Jaskier! Triss said _she's_ so pretty!"

"Well that's good news, then," he grinned. "But why do you need my help if you already know Triss isn't in a relationship?"

"I want to tell her how I feel, before she makes any concrete decisions."

“Congrats on the love confession!” the bard clapped, grinning widely. He loved it when other people were happy and he definitely loved the opportunity to help a friend in need of backup. “I don’t mean to assume anything, but I’m guessing you came here for help? Mona used to do this kind of thing all the time.”

Yennefer blushed, flushing a light shade of fuchsia beneath the already warm-toned copper of her cheeks. “I need you and Essi to do something for me.”

“Alright, how can we contribute?”

“I was wondering if you and the band would play a song for me. If that's alright! I mean, if it's no bother!”

Jaskier had watched Yennefer perform magic shows for children. He had seen her balance a dagger on the tip of her nose and throw darts with scary accuracy at the pub. He had never once seen her so frazzled and out of sorts; it was endearing as all hell.

“Quick question that no one has ever been able to answer: Why is it called the First Friday dance if it happens after the third week of the Faire?”

“Couldn’t honestly tell you,” Yennefer winked. 

“Alright, fuck. Fine,” he teased back. “What’s your special request, my Lady?”

“Do you know the song _Roseville Fair?_ ” 

“Yes, but how will you convince Triss to wear blue to the dance on Friday?”

“That’s where Renfri comes in…”

* * *

Essi pulled long and slow on her fiddle, a solitary note filling the air and getting everyone’s attention. She transitioned seamlessly into the full tune, slowing the tempo a bit at the beginning to let the guitar and bodhran players join in. When playing the tune felt natural to the whole group, she picked up her speed and winked over at Jaskier. The bard schooled his features to keep from grinning and sweetened his voice as much as possible, trying to somehow heighten the already naturally romantic ambiance of a summertime bonfire. Everything but the music had been left up to Renfri and Yennefer and the bard was looking forward to seeing it all play out: 

_“_ _Oh, the night was clear,_

_And the stars were shining,_

_And the moon came up so quiet in the sky…”_

He began to shift his weight back and forth unconsciously, his body moving in synch with the lilting notes of the folksong. If he hadn’t been so invested in what was happening in front of him, Jaskier probably would have closed his eyes and focused more intently on the vibrato and inflection of his voice.

_“All the people gathered 'round;_

_The band was tuning,_

_I can hear them now_

_Playin'_ ‘ Comin' Through The Rye' _._ ”

He winked at Triss as he started the next verse; her pale blue skirts swirled around her ankles as she smiled and swayed in place on the far side of the bonfire. From the corner of his peripheral vision, Jaskier watched Yennefer approach the slender, freckled brunette and hold out her hand. Triss took it, blushing furiously, and allowed the taller woman to lead her into the crowd of other dancers. Jaskier raised the volume of his song so they could hear it over the quiet conversations of the lifers and the shuffling of everyone's boots in the dirt:

_“You were dressed in blue,_

_And you looked so lovely;_

_A gentle flower_

_Of a small-town girl._

_“Then you took my hand,_

_And we danced to the music._

_With a single smile,_

_You became my world.”_

* * *

Geralt’s heart soared when Triss finally leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Yennefer’s crimson-tinged cheek. She left behind a dark smudge of faded lipstick but the magician didn’t seem to mind. Yen’s violet eyes were bright with giddy excitement and it wasn't likely that any force in the world could keep the matching smiles from their faces. Behind the vignette of perfect happiness was Jaskier’s dulcet tenor, weaving the notes of an unfamiliar song together like some kind of ethereal forest nymph. No human alive should be allowed to have a voice like that. 

Geralt found his eyes drifting from the slow-dancing couple to the handsome bard, whose lilac trousers were covered in dirt and grass-stains from his earlier shift. The knight errant had never seen or heard anything so beautiful before in his entire life. 

It was a little bit frightening, actually, but as long as his eyes were locked on Jaskier’s gently smiling face, Geralt couldn’t bring himself to mind.

_“And we danced all night_

_To the fiddle and the banjo,_

_Their drifting tunes filled the air._

_So long ago, and we still remember_

_When we fell in love at the Roseville Fair.”_

Jaskier didn't have the same South Skelligan accent as the original singer and songwriter, but the mild affectation he gave every syllable seemed to make up the difference, rounding out the words until they slid easily from between his pretty, plump pink lips…

Geralt glanced back to Yennefer and Triss, hoping that his position in the darkness would keep anyone from seeing his blush. Triss’s head rested against Yennefer’s shoulder and the taller woman had her cheek pressed to the top of Triss’s unruly brown curls. They weren’t really moving much, just turning in a slow circle with their arms wrapped tightly around each others’ waists. 

_“Now we courted well,_

_And we courted dearly,_

_And we'd rock for hours_

_In the front porch chair._

_Then a year went by_

_From the time I met you,_

_And I made you mine_

_At the Roseville Fair.”_

An image sprang to the front of Geralt’s mind, entirely unbidden and completely unwarranted: Jaskier in his Day Clothes, maybe some flamboyantly colored skinny jeans and a shirt with a busy, bright pattern all over it (that picture seemed right, somehow), his hand resting atop Geralt’s thigh as they sat on Vesemir’s porch swing, laughing at a joke that Eskel had told. Lambert is a little to their right, smirking, his eyes narrowed but not with suspicion. They are all together and they are all smiling and it feels…

 _Silly_.

It feels silly to be thinking of something so personal and romantic and unseemly and… and absolutely wonderful. 

Geralt’s expression soured and his eyebrows furrowed together. Triss was always telling him that his scowl could curdle milk, and tonight it might have even made for decent cottage cheese. 

_“So here's a song for all of the lovers;_

_Here's a tune that they can share._

_May they dance all night_

_To the fiddle and the banjo,_

_The way we did at the Roseville Fair.”_

Triss and Yenn remained utterly wrapped up in each other for the next fifteen minutes, so Geralt didn’t feel bad at all when he slipped into the darkness beyond the flickering of the firelight and disappeared back to his tent to sleep. He needed to escape, to get away; he felt like a cornered animal with nowhere to go but _through_ and he wasn’t used to that.

But even after he had brushed his teeth, braided back his hair, and changed into his nightclothes, the band was _still_ playing and the bard was _still_ singing his damned heart out. Geralt could make out the whispers of the lifers and their low chuckles, raspy from years of smoking pot or tobacco from authentic wooden pipes. Louder than that was the alto-pitched laughter of Renfri, poking fun at some of the newbies who couldn’t hold their liquor (like she was one to talk). Unfortunately, neither of those sounds truly drowned out the siren call of Jaskier’s gorgeous tenor.

Geralt covered his head with his pillow at first but quickly grew uncomfortable, giving in to his urges with an uncharacteristically dramatic sigh. He pulled his blanket up around his shoulders and let himself relax after a long week and an even longer day; the sound of Jaskier’s lovely singing, high and breathy and perfect, followed him all the way into unconsciousness. 


	6. Bind Them All Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy March!
> 
> "Warriors" - Ronan Hardiman (the music I was using for Geralt's trick riding routine)
> 
> "The Star of the County Down" - Loreena McKennitt (there are other versions but I love how soft and haunting her voice is)

Jaskier followed Renfri up into the stands, peering over the mound of junk food piled in his arms as he tried to keep from tripping. He grunted when he nearly missed a step and shot his friend a bewildered look, “Alright, I want some details. You’ve been avoiding answering me all afternoon but now I absolutely demand satisfaction!  _ What  _ are we doing, why are you spending your day off like  _ this  _ and  _ what  _ in god’s name do you need all this food for?”

“First of all, I can spend my day off  _ and  _ my hard-earned cash any way that I want because it’s none of your business. Second, Geralt lost a bet to me last week and today we will both enjoy the fruits of my gambling labor; and  _ third,  _ there are  _ communists  _ in the  _ funhouse  _ and I desire copious amounts of greasy food in order to compensate for the physical pain of being assigned female at birth. Are we clear?”

Jaskier merely nodded in compliance, properly cowed, and continued to follow the excitable knight as she led him up to her favorite set of seats. From their nearly-bird’s-eye vantage point, Jaskier could clearly see the entire arena laid out in front of them. He could watch the Queen waving from her fancy throne on the far side of the jousting ring almost as well as the people elbowing each other for space near the stable gates, trying to get a peek at the knights within. “Damn girl, you always know right where to park, huh?”

“I’ve been doing this for awhile,” Renfri smirked. She took an enormous turkey leg from Jaskier’s hands and pulled it closer to compare it to the size of her head. “I’ve learned a few things.”

“Like how to absolutely destroy poultry in five minutes?”

“Watch and learn, Buttercup. Watch and learn.”

The bard looked on in horrified wonder as the slim brunette packed away the entire turkey leg, along with an apple dumpling and two lemonades. Jaskier whispered in overacted terror: “What the fuck kind of monster  _ are  _ you?”

She wiped her greasy mouth on the back of her sleeve and smiled in satisfaction at the full-body shudder her actions elicited from her friend. Renfri leaned her elbows back against the empty bench behind them, still smiling, and gave the bard her most innocent doe-eyes. “Excited to see how well Geralt performs?” 

“Excuse me?” Jaskier coughed, trying desperately not to spit his own mouthful of lemonade onto the woman sitting just in front of him. “What did you just say?”

“That’s why I have the day off, remember? It’s Geralt’s turn to do the special exhibition for the tourists this afternoon. Well, Geralt and Aubry. I haven’t seen you making any moo-moo eyes at Aubry, though, so I assume we won’t be staying to see his quarterstaff technique demonstration later this afternoon.”

“Geralt rides horses, right?”

“He doesn’t just  _ ride horses, _ ” Renfri scoffed. “He… well, actually, just buckle up and see. You’re going to thank me so hard for this.”

“And he’s really not dating Triss?” the bard clarified, still confused about that entire situation. 

“I highly doubt he’s dating Triss,” the knight chuckled. “Not after the way she was locking lips with Yennefer the other night in her tent.”

“Oh my gods; they slept together?”

“Quite literally. I think they passed out in the middle of their smooch-sesh. There were a lot of gross sucking noises, some soft homoerotic moans, and then snoring. No actual sex noises that I was aware of… and I was  _ aware. _ ”

“Huh. Well that’s good news for me, I suppose. That means I have a chance, potentially…  _ if  _ Geralt is even interested in men in the first place.”

“Shut up,” Renfri ordered, slapping him in the chest with one hand and pointing toward the jousting ring with the other. “The show is about to start and I don’t want you to miss his grand entrance.”

A short man in a huge, hideously feathered hat stood at the center of the field with a scroll in his hands. He unrolled it clumsily and announced with a relatively smooth voice: “Hear ye! Hear ye! On this good and glorious afternoon, Her Majesty the Queen has kindly ordered a performance for you, a demonstration of the skills and talents of her valiant knights-in-arms. Today the great White Wolf and his trusty steed, Roach, shall complete a series of physical tricks and challenges for your enjoyment. With that, let the entertainment begin! Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!” the crowd cheered. It was early afternoon on a warm, early-summer day. Half the audience was already drunk and the other half was making a good effort to catch up. Jaskier, however, was completely sober and glued to the edge of his seat. From the far left of the field, flying fast as an arrow, came the great brown mare Jaskier had seen Geralt riding during the jousting competition. Hanging sideways from her saddle, one arm extended out towards the audience, was Geralt. His silver hair was pulled back into a ponytail and his pants were made of tight but well-worn black leather. 

There was no shirt to be spoken of.

The bard gasped and clutched at his chest, hand scrabbling uselessly as if searching for a string of pearls. “Renfri! My gods!” 

“I know, right!? Isn’t he fucking spectacular?” 

“There aren’t enough words in Common,” Jaskier breathed, leaning unconsciously forward in his seat. “Not nearly enough words to describe that kind of… magnificence.” 

Jaskier watched every single one of the knight’s gloriously sculpted muscles ripple and shift beneath his pale, scar-littered skin as he pulled himself up into the saddle as the horse raced past. Without missing a single beat, Geralt heaved himself up and stood, the reins long and taut in his hands, his grip as sure as the sunshine beating down against Jaskier’s head. The white-haired knight held himself steady with one hand and waved with the other. Jaskier whispered to nobody in particular, “Well fuck me.”

“He might, if you ask nicely,” Renfri teased. She elbowed Jaskier in the ribs but he didn’t fight back; he was too busy watching Geralt complete a series of quick, complicated up-and-down movements. He dropped from the saddle to the ground and then bounced, with a nearly invisible little jump, back up to sit facing Roach’s rear-end. He did the trick a few times in quick succession before taking a solid seat facing frontwards. He made it just in time for Roach to tilt left as she went around the corner. 

The knight took a moment to regain his full balance and let Roach readjust to his total weight. Once she rounded the second corner and entered a stretch of flat turf, Geralt twitched his far leg back and forth before sliding sideways. He held his arms straight out from his shoulders and formed a sort of ‘T’ shape, as if he was flying. The sun made the smattering of white hair across his delectable chest even more appealing and Jaskier practically  _ salivated  _ as he watched the handsome knight’s thighs tense beneath all that tight black leather. The bard grabbed one of his best friend’s hands in both of his and held it to his lips, pressing a quick kiss to the back of her wrist. 

“Thank you for bringing me here today. Thank you for winning whatever bet it was that made this happen. I owe you my entire life, my darling. I don’t know what I’m going to do about it right now but I do know without a shadow of a doubt that I’m in love with him, I swear it.”

“You’re a dramatic ass bitch and I love you,” Renfri said. “Now, hand me the cotton candy or I’m going to start nibbling on your arm.”

* * *

Breathless and beaming, Geralt guided Roach back to a slow trot and listened as the crowd went wild around them.  _ Maybe going shirtless wasn’t such a bad idea,  _ he thought. People were practically shoving wads of cash into the tip jar next to his pendant as they exited the stands; he could probably afford to pig out at the dumpling stand later and not feel bad about doing any damage to his wallet. He raised his voice and waved again, performing the end of this particular event script: “Thank you for your generosity and time, kind people. It was a privilege to perform for you and our Queen on this fine day.”

His half-shouted thanks was met with even louder, more excited cheering. A few almost deafening shrieks from some of the young ladies in the crowd had Geralt reconsidering whether or not the bare-chested look was actually worth all those lovely tips after all. The knight glanced up into the stands to see who all had come for the show and found his eyes alighting on a pair of familiar green satin trousers.  _ Jaskier?! I thought Renfri said they both had the day off, I thought she was- _

He saw Jaskier laugh and press a kiss to the back of Renfri’s wrist. A mixture of shame and jealousy flooded through him, almost catching him off-guard. He had no legitimate reason to feel either of those things; there was no shame in finding Jaskier attractive and there shouldn’t be any jealousy between him and his coworker. If Renfri was happy, then so was Geralt. Even if he had a crush on her sweet, twunky boyfriend and his stupidly perfect voice.

Geralt flushed pink at the thought and turned Roach back toward the stables behind the jousting ring. He urged her into a quick trot in an effort to get away before his blush spread all the way to his waistband and ruined things for sure. He’d seen the easy affection between the couple. He’d seen how easy it was for them to be around each other; he was weak and wanting and  _ stupid  _ but he also didn’t want to make things uncomfortable. 

He didn’t have long to think about how to handle the situation, however, since Renfri and the accursed bard made their way into the stables and over to Roach’s stall. “Great job out there, cowboy!”

“Thanks, Ren.”

“It was- I’ve never seen something like that before,” Jaskier stuttered out. His cheeks were their own lovely shade of pink and the corner of his lip was raw where he nibbled at it between fractured sentences. Geralt hastily pulled on his shirt, letting it fall loosely over the top of his trousers. Jaskier continued to babble, covering up any awkwardness with his eagerness to bestow compliments, “It was amazing! A truly superhuman feat of strength and dexterity! How long did it take you to learn how to ride like that? Did Roach get scared at first? Oh goodness, listen to me, I’m so sorry I-”

“He’s a nervous talker,” Renfri interrupted. “Anyway, good show today, dude. I have to skitter off and deal with some scheduling issues, but you should definitely answer Jaskier’s questions for him. He’s a very quick learner and you’re a very patient teacher, after all.”

“But I-” Jaskier spluttered. “You said-”

“Later!”. The knight turned on her heel and flashed a peace sign back over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd outside. The wide stone hallway through the center of the Faire’s impressive stables seemed suddenly very cramped and small. Geralt took a deep, steadying breath.  _ Renfri is going to pay for this… _

“I don’t want to bother you or intrude,” Jaskier spoke up. The note of sadness in his voice yanked Geralt back to reality, where he realized with a start that he was scowling rather fiercely. The young brunette took a step back and held up his hands as if surrendering, “You were incredible out there and it was a joy to watch. Sorry about Renfri and all of my- I’ll just- I’ll get out of your gorgeous white hair.”

The flirty, self-assured Jaskier who’d ordered him to fetch beer the week before was gone and in his place was this shy, anxious creature. Geralt wasn’t sure which one was real, or if they were both equally important parts of a much larger whole; he suspected the latter. The knight relaxed his expression into something far closer to  _ friendly _ and asked quietly, “Which trick was your favorite?”

Jaskier, who had been backing toward the exit as he babbled his goodbyes, suddenly stopped and glanced up. “Huh?”

“Which one of the tricks did you like best?” 

The bard perked up immediately and came closer, “The one where-” he held out his arms as an example “-where you looked like you were about to lift right off the saddle like Peter Pan.”

“Peter Pan, huh?”

“Or Superman,” Jaskier laughed. Geralt luxuriated in the sound. Jaskier gesticulated wildly and grinned, “Or, you know, whichever flying character strikes your fancy.”

“Why did you like that one so much?” 

Jaskier’s face darkened significantly and the shadows of the barn made his blush look even more severe than it already was, “You looked happy.”

Geralt didn’t know what to say in response to that. He thought maybe the younger man would flirt, mention his musculature or his hair but no… Jaskier had surprised him yet again. The bard seemed to be full of endless surprises. “Oh uh… Thank you. It’s one of the easier tricks, actually.”

“How does it work?” Jaskier asked, stepping forward again. Geralt’s heart leaped in his chest every time the younger man closed more of the distance between them. He stepped to the side and gestured at Roach’s saddle. 

“May I show you?”

“Please!” 

“So I loop my leg through this loop on the far side, you see? And then I lower the other leg into this strap, and push off a little, and let gravity do the rest,” he explained, pointing to each individual piece of specialized tack and miming the movement required to secure himself into position. “Then I can hold my arms out without being afraid of falling.”

“I think I’d always be a little bit scared,” Jaskier admitted, his hand finding its way to Roach’s muzzle. Before Geralt could yank him back or warn him about her knack for biting strangers, Roach surprised him by shoving her nose against Jaskier’s palm and snorting happily. The bard brightened immediately and set to work petting her face and snout, careful about where and how he touched her. Geralt went totally ignored as the young brunette muttered sweet nothings to the knight’s horse, reassuring her that she was an  _ excellent girl  _ who  _ did things no other horse could dream of doing.  _

Without realizing quite when or how he’d arrived there, Geralt found himself submerged in an ocean of deep and giddy affection. It rose up before him like a tidal wave and threatened to crash down, taking him and the other man with it; the knight coughed and smiled over at his visitor. “If you want to wait for me just outside, I’ll finish taking care of Roach and then maybe we could grab a bite to eat?”

Jaskier looked suddenly sheepish. “I already promised Essi I’d help her figure out a set for this weekend. I’m afraid I’m running a bit late as it is.”

“Are you officially part of the band, then?”

“Something like that. Any requests you’d like to make?”

“Sing something slow,” Geralt managed to ask, pushing his voice past the disappointed lump in his throat. He  _ wanted  _ this person. Wanted to spend time with him. Was disappointed that Jaskier already had other plans. That was  _ terrifying _ . “A ballad or something. For me.”

“I ca-” Jaskier bit at his lip and nodded, flushing again. “I can do that, of course. Thank you again for the show today and for-” he gestured vaguely around himself and the barn “-letting me see all of this. You’re very nice. So is Roachie Girl. Isn’t that right my darling lady? Right, then. Hope to see you around, Geralt.”

And before Geralt could return a solitary compliment, Jaskier fled the stables. 

* * *

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Essi groaned, burying her face in her hands. “You could have absolutely done this after lunch!”

“I was nervous!” Jaskier half-shouted. “He was all sweaty and his shirt wasn’t tucked in and his hair was falling out of his ponytail into his pretty hazel eyes and I panicked! So sue me!”

“I just might, you silly bastard. But, since you decided to give up your hot potential date to be here with me, what ideas do you have for our next little show?”  
“Geralt requested something slow…” the singer blushed. “So maybe we could toss in a ballad or two amongst the jigs and shanties?”

“I’m not opposed to a ballad,” Essi acquiesced. “It’s always nice to do a slow dance when the fire is warmest, right before everyone leaves for bed. It’ll help wind down the evening.”

“Perfect. Now, we just need to think of a song…”

“It’s  _ your  _ boyfriend,” Essi laughed. “You pick the ballad, buddy. That’s just how it works around here.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jaskier glared.

“Not yet, my dear. Not  _ yet _ .”

“Might never be at this rate,” he huffed. “Now, let’s practice. I want to make sure I can hit all the notes.”

“So you’ve thought of something?”

“You could say that,” he wiggled his eyebrows. “He seems to like the love songs best, especially the ones with the breathy choruses…”

“Oh, I think I’ve caught your drift, dear.”

* * *

“You really know how to be dramatic, don’t you?” Essi asked, giving Jaskier’s ensemble a quick once-over. He hadn’t changed his baby-blue trousers, but he’d rolled them up to his knees and forgone wearing any shoes. He’d donned an elaborate heather-and-blue-delphinium crown braided together with a series of twisting blue ribbons and his shirt was open even lower than usual. “Well, my darling, let’s win you a man.”

Jaskier winked and took up his spot beside her on the tiny stage. His voice followed the fiddle and the bodhran into song. A few hours later, when the dancers were starting to tire and the only light from the fire was a warm orange glow, Jaskier nodded over to Essi and gave her a quick wink. She nodded back and drew her bow slowly across the strings of her fiddle. The Skelligan ballad was slow and soft, and Jaskier’s tired voice lifted up towards the stars, determined to get his message across. Determined to get Geralt’s attention from across the fire and hold it, if even for a moment.

_ “Near Banbridge Town in the County Down, _

_ One morning last July, _

_ From a boreen green came a sweet colleen _

_ And she smiled as she passed me by. _

_ “She looked so sweet from her two bare feet _

_ To the sheen of her nut brown hair; _

_ Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself, _

_ For to see I was really there.” _

Jaskier grinned internally when Geralt’s head shot up, a smile tugging at the corner of the knight’s mouth already when their gazes met. Those hazel eyes, so clear and bright with the flames reflecting in them from below, bore into Jaskier’s as the bard continued lilting through the words, his body swaying unconsciously as the tune carried him forward:

_ “From Bantry Bay into Derry Quay, _

_ From Galway to Dublin Town, _

_ No maid I've seen like the fair colleen _

_ That I met in the County Down. _

_ “As she onward sped, sure I scratched my head, _

_ And I looked with a feelin' rare; _

_ And I says, says I, to a passer-by _

_ ‘Who's the maid with the nut brown hair?’” _

Geralt shoved away from the tree he’d been leaning against and made his way slowly around the stone firepit, never letting their eye contact drop for a moment. Jaskier suddenly found himself sympathizing with cornered prey animals; he’d never felt paralyzed before. He’d never understood what it was like to be absolutely physically incapable of running away, even though something tugged at him to flee that very moment.

_ “He smiled at me and he says, says he: _

_ ‘That's the gem of Ireland's crown; _

_ Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann. _

_ She's the star of the County Down.’ _

_ “From Bantry Bay into Derry Quay, _

_ From Galway to Dublin Town, _

_ No maid I've seen like the fair colleen _

_ That I met in the County Down.” _

There was a long instrumental break after the second rendition of the chorus and Jaskier found himself drowning in Geralt’s attention again. He felt his face burning up and he wanted nothing more than to dart forward and fling himself at the slightly taller man. He wanted to know what it was like to sway within the warm, safe confines of those capable arms. He yearned for it like nothing else; but he held himself in place with the iron will of the gods.

_ “The Harvest Fair, she'll be surely there, _

_ And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes, _

_ With my shoes shone bright and my hat cocked right, _

_ For a smile from my nut brown rose. _

_ “No pipe I'll smoke and no horse I'll yoke, _

_ Til my plough turns rust coloured brown, _

_ Til my smiling bride by my own fireside _

_ Sits the star of the County Down.” _

Jaskier pictured Geralt, a book in his hands and a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his perfectly sculpted nose, sitting beside the fireplace at his family’s summer home. He closed his eyes, shying away from the intensity of his feelings for Geralt, and finished out the song as strongly as he could. He felt as if his legs were about to give out from under him. Would anyone be there to catch him?

Was it wrong to wish that  _ Geralt  _ might be there to catch him?

_ “From Bantry Bay into Derry Quay, _

_ From Galway to Dublin Town, _

_ No maid I've seen like the fair colleen _

_ That I met in the County Down.” _

As soon as he thanked Essi and bowed his way off the stage, Jaskier took off for his tent at a light jog, not giving the white-haired knight a chance to stop him. 

It was too much.

He needed a moment alone to think.

* * *

Geralt didn’t see Jaskier for a few days after that evening by the fire and he was worried that he’d somehow overstepped his bounds. He’d intended to find the bard during his lunch break and apologize for whatever he had done to upset the younger man but Renfri found him first. Her eyes were wild and her hair was wilder as she elbowed her way to his side; what scared Geralt the most was the mixture of anger and panic in her expression. “Fuck, Geralt. I need your help!”

“What’s wrong?!” he asked, grabbing for his sword on instinct. She nodded, indicating that he should bring it along.

“Jaskier’s ex is here and he’s causing trouble.” Geralt pushed his way out of the break tent and took off towards the flower crown booth. Renfri was right behind him, muttering obscenities under her breath as she tried to explain the situation. “Buttercup is freaking the hell out and I can’t even- Fucking Valdo fucking Marx and his prick ass friends- If the stupid Ambassador would just let him get a  _ restraining order-  _ Fucking assholes- I’m- Fuck!”

“Just go away!” Geralt heard Jaskier half-gasping as they approached. “I don’t want any trouble, please, Val. I just wanted one summer to… to heal after…”

“Poor baby,” a thin, reedy tenor voice replied. Not nearly as smooth or rich as Jaskier’s. “What’s wrong, Jasky? I’m just here to buy a flower crown. I know you need lots of distance and peace and emotional serenity or whatever but you can't just hide away from the world, you know. I'm just here, an innocent fair-goer, enjoying my afternoon and shopping. You can't stop me, can you, Jasky?”

Geralt saw red.

He shoved his way into Jaskier’s booth with a snarl. His nostrils flared and his grip on his sword hilt tightened. His voice was barely more than a growl when he asked: “What the fuck is going on in here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Validate Me, I Am Very Tired
> 
> Also sorry about the cliffhanger but it's mostly motivation for me to publish sooner. :)


End file.
